as often as it should, he was certain to hear of it in the morning.
Tregoz would know that old jest. I suppose Dunwal may have had some
hand in taking the arrows hence."

"It is likely enough," I answered. "He will have to pay for his
brother's deed tomorrow, in all likelihood, also. But who wrote the
letter, and who slew Tregoz?"

Owen thought for a little while.

"Mara, Dunwal's daughter, is the most likely person to have
written," he said. "It would be like a woman to do so, and she
seems at least no enemy. Maybe the man was the sentry, after all,
and fled because he had given up his arms, and so was sharer in the
deed that he repented of. Or he may have been some friend of ours,
or foe of the Cornishman, who would not wait for the rough handling
of the guard when they found him there where he should not be. No
doubt we shall hear of him soon or late."

But we did not. There was no trace of him, or of the writer of the
letter. One may imagine the fury of Gerent when he heard all this
in the morning, but even his wrath could not make Dunwal speak of
aught that he might know. But for the pleading of Owen, the old
king would have hung him then and there, and all that my foster
father could gain for him was his life. Into the terrible old Roman
dungeon, pit-like, with only a round hole in the stone covering of
it through which a prisoner was lowered, he was thrown, and there
he bided all the time I was at Norton.

By all right the lands of these two fell again into the hands of